


Paris, 11 November 1637

by Anima Nightmate (faithhope)



Series: All For One and, well, you know the rest... [45]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Canon-Typical Sexism, Conspiracy, Constance will gut you like a fish if you lay a hand on her lads, Court Politics, Crossbow, Exhibition Match, Franco-Spanish War, Gen, Historical Figures, Historical References, Marcheaux is an insecure arse, Medals, Period-Typical Racism, Politics, Shooting, Shooting Guns, Some Historical Fudging, Speeches, Swordfighting, Swordplay, Thirty Years War, Wartime, mock-combat, musket shooting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:29:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27271222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faithhope/pseuds/Anima%20Nightmate
Summary: The King’s Parade is finally on hand, and various parties congregate from across the city to collect their just deserts on this auspicious day.*Another installment in the long series of pieces based around the black box that is the Musketeers during the Spanish War.
Relationships: Ana de Austria | Anne d'Autriche/Aramis | Rene d'Herblay (in memory), Ana de Austria | Anne d'Autriche/Constance Bonacieux (in memory), Ana de Austria | Anne d'Autriche/Louis XIII de France, Constance & Original Male Character(s), Constance & Serge, Lucien Grimaud & Feron, Marcheaux & Constance, Tréville & Original Male Character(s), Tréville & Queen Anne
Series: All For One and, well, you know the rest... [45]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/944322
Comments: 12
Kudos: 9





	1. nervos belli, pecuniam infinitam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations for dialect, among other things, available on hover-over and in end notes.

“Right then,” she says.

“Right,” he agrees.

They nod at each other.

“Ready?” he asks.

“’Course!” she says, scoffing a little.

“Right.”

“Right.”

“I’ll just, er, go. Yeah, I’ll just go–” he points over his shoulder with his thumb.

She nods, smile flinching onto and off her face.

Serge lumbers up to her, gesturing to the hurrying swordmaster. “Where’s he off to, then?”

“Latrines. Again.”

“I see. How many–?”

“Thrice in the last quarter-hour.”

“I see.”

“Mmh.”

“So. You ready?”

She cocks a _come on_ expression his way, pulls her stomacher down a little and her gloves a little tighter. “No.”

He cackles himself into something of a coughing fit for that.

“You alright?”

“Ah, s’nuthin. Time o’ year’s all.” He thumps his chest expressively.

“You want to watch it – you’re not getting any younger.”

“Philosophically speaking,” he over-enunciates primly, “no-one is.”

This wins a small smirk from her, despite everything.

“Gonna make a wild guess, like,” he says, proper voice restored, “and say you ain’t eaten nuffink this mornin’.”

“I couldn’t.” She shakes her head, eyes widening. “Just–”

“An’ ’ow many times you told them little lads to eat proper or they’ll make even stupider decisions, eh? S’gonna be a long ol’ day…”

She rolls her eyes, mouth flattening to one side. “Too late now, isn’t it?”

“Nope!” He pulls out a bulging napkin from behind his back. “’oney-glazed. Black olives. If you _don’t_ eat ’em,” he goes on, “I shall be mort’ly offended, which will make me go all feeble, an’ then I’ll die before me time, an’ ’ow will you feel then, eh? Savin’ ya from yerself, basic’ly,” he adds. “No-one wants that kind of guilt taggin’ around after ’em, doggin’ their steps, weighin’ their ’eart daahn. ‘Oh, if only I’d eaten poor Serge’s rolls,’” he flutes, “you’ll say, ‘’e’d never’ve carked it so tragically an’ that. Let this be a lesson to–’”

“Yes, alright!” She grabs them off him. “Point bloody made.”

“’oney and olives,” he says, nodding towards them as one emerges. “Fresh. You’ll not find better either side of the Seine, I dare say. Go well with a bit o’ cheese, I reckon. Or bacon. Yerrrs. But wanted summink you could carry easily and no grease, innit.”

“You’re a magician.”

“Tha’s good, coz if you’da said I was a saint or summink similar, I’d’a laughed atcha. Right!” he says, sniffing hard, coughing a little, and thumping his chest again. “Gotta go get a good place in the crowd. Wouldn’ wanna miss _this!_ ” He pulls a dreadful old cap on, snuggling it down over his ears, nods at her and the returning Fabron, and bowls off.

“What did he want?”

“Bread roll?” she offers.

*

“How do I look?”

“Yeah, very spry,” he says, clearly a touch too absently.

“ _Spry?_ ” Damn.

“Spruce, then,” he says, turning a mild gaze away from the window. “Dapper, debonair.”

The Marquis humphs, pulling his waistcoat down for the thirteenth time or so.

“Statesmanlike,” he tells him quietly, sincerely.

Now, _this_ wins a smile. “You think so?”

“Absolutely.”

A small frown appears. “You don’t think it a little…” he looks down, brushes at the front of his long, charcoal doublet, “old-fashioned?”

He smiles quite naturally for this, turning and moving slowly towards the Marquis. “Trust me: what the crowd want is a bit of old-fashioned. Uncertain times call for a sense of… stability and…” he cocks his head, eyes moving toward the ceiling, searching for the word.

“Noblesse?”

“Mmh, maybe,” he murmurs. “I was thinking more along the lines of the opposite of frivolous or flighty. Something _reliable_. A strong hand.”

“Ah, yes. Well,” the Marquis’s smile slants up one cheek, almost shy, “let’s start with sombre, humble stability before any demonstrations of strength.”

“Very wise.” He nods.

“Mmh.” The Marquis shuffles slightly, looking down at his cane, and he can feel it chiming in his own limbs. It feels something like relief, if he’s honest. And he always tries to be honest with himself, at least. He’ll say nothing. Now’s not the time.

The Marquis has few such qualms. “We come,” he says, in that slurring, slanted tone he sometimes hears in dreams now, “to the end of a chapter but not, I hope,” another shy, crooked look up through his lashes, for all the world like a flattering mignon instead of the man about to become one of the most powerful in Paris, “the end of the book.”

He smirks a little. “Not much one for reading, myself,” he reminds him. “But no – one campaign doesn’t end the war.” _The War is eternal_ , whispers that sly voice inside him. Fuck off. Not the time.

Feron nods, then blinks at him for a bit. “I don’t suppose…” he starts. When nothing more is forthcoming, he raises his eyebrows politely, cocks his head a touch. _Go on_. The Marquis clears his throat delicately. “It is to be,” he starts again, slowly, a little halting, “a _long_ day, with a great deal of,” he grimaces lightly, “ _stairs_.” And stares, if he’s not careful.

Ah. Now this. This won’t change. But hopefully he’ll not have to be _smiling_ so damned much all the time from now on.

“A cold day, to boot,” he agrees. “We have time, do we not, before your carriage needs to leave?”

The man’s features sharpen, his eyes following his hands as they reach inside to _that_ pocket. “Yes. Yes, we do.”

He measures the dose carefully. His Lordship needs to impress, after all.

*

Tréville sniffs, clears his throat, swallows, adjusts his shoulders with a rapid stretch of his neck each way, crick-crack, and if Perrault hadn’t been used to it by now, he’d have winced to hear it. He casts an eye sideways at Robert, who is as impassive as ever.

“Comfortable, Minister?” he ventures.

Tréville’s lips and eyes tighten briefly, but, for all his subsequent smile is wintry, it’s genuine enough, as is the nod he gives. “The collar is, perhaps, a little tight,” he allows.

“It will give,” he says. “With time.”

The Minister quirks a wry grimace at him. “But not today.”

“Er, no. Not as such.”

As the man reaches to fiddle with it again, his secretary clears his throat gently. “It _will_ need to stay done up _fully_ for such a… _prestigious_ occasion,” he murmurs.

Tréville glowers at him, dropping his hands. “I’ve worn armour that felt less uncomfortable,” he growls. Perrault darts a look at Robert and relaxes to see him smirk softly, an expression the Minister returns.

“Time to go, sir,” says Robert.

The Minister takes a deep breath through his nose, brushes down his long doublet, nods at them both, and, hand on hilt, strides off without a further word.

“He’ll be fine,” he says to Robert, for all it’s at least half a question, and Robert nods serenely. “Does he know?” he asks after a while.

“I think he suspects _something_ – the King is not, after all, a _subtle_ man – but specifically? No.”

“And will you watch–?”

“I would not miss that moment for my own weight in gold,” says Robert, “although I confess,” he adds with what Perrault would expect a far less _subtle_ man to express as outright glee, “that I will spare at least half an eye for the look on the Marquis’s face.”

Perrault chokes briefly. “Dear God, I’d not thought of that.”

“May Saint Raphael protect your innocence, young man,” which Perrault finds mildly amusing, since Robert is clearly not much older than him. The secretary gazes at him for a long, blank-faced moment. “Are you attending yourself?”

“I’ve been given leave to do so. Most of us,” he extends a briefly sweeping arm to encompass the general Palace staff, “have been.” He suspects it’s more to do with ensuring a crowd than any largesse on the part of the court, but more than a few of them, especially those hailing from more rural backgrounds, are feeling a reminiscent sense of festival they associate with this date.

“I was wondering,” Robert explains, almost absently, his gaze certainly more on the Minister’s shelves than on Perrault, “whether you would care to join me. By happy accident,” he goes on, “I will have a rather good vantage point for said set of expressions.”

Oh.

“Oh. Um,” he is wondering how to put this.

“There is,” and again, it’s mild where another man would express earnestness, perhaps, “no pressure implied in this invitation.”

“Of course not,” he murmurs. And Robert waits.

He takes a long breath. He sees his friends waiting, imagines greeting them, the holiday feel of the walk to the Rue St. Antoine, being surrounded by a sea of other folk once they’re there, occasionally going on tiptoes to see how a regiment he particularly favours looks as they go past, looking up to the dais (if they can get close enough) to watch the Royal Party, imagining the expressions, nudging each other when…

And he imagines Roberts nodding when he sees him next, asking him punctiliously how he’d enjoyed the spectacle.

And never offering this kind of closeness again, having taken the hint.

“I,” he starts, slowly, “was due, well, _expected_ to meet friends to watch–”

“How many?” asks Robert.

“Hmm?”

“How many friends?”

“Two,” he says, doesn’t know why this makes him blush.

“Then please, do invite them along too.”

“Oh.” They can only say no. And they will still be his friends afterwards, no matter how they all spend this afternoon.

Huh.

“Thank you,” he tells Robert, “I would be honoured.”

“Well then,” says the secretary, and Perrault would be prepared to swear that the merest touch of colour has graced his porcelain features in pleasure, “shall we?” An eloquent arm extends towards the corridor.

“Please.”

Robert deposits his usual armful of files, squaring the edges minutely, and nods.

This is going to be an interesting day.

*

“I _understand_ that,” she’s saying, “but what you don’t–”

“What’s going on?”

The man he recognises for a Swiss Guard lieutenant turns a reddening face towards him and an accusatory finger towards her. “This _woman_ ,” her shoulders rise as her face lowers, “is _insisting_ on marching with the regiment and–”

“Which regiment?”

“The Musketeers,” he spits. “A bunch of b–”

“Oi!” she cuts in, moving forward, “pretty sure they could make mincemeat of you pretty little–”

The lieutenant steps closer, jaw bunching. “I’ll not have my regiment disrespected by a brazen wh–”

“Whoa-whoa-whoa!” calls the long-haired citizen who’s just been watching, striding up as the cadets nudge each other, “there’s no call for that.”

“Who the Hell are you?” demands the lieutenant.

“Fabron,” he nods slowly, while keeping his eyes on the shorter man. “Swordmaster for the Musketeer regiment.”

“ _They_ have a _swordmaster?_ ”

The woman’s eyebrows flick. “Why? Don’t _you?_ ”

The lieutenant takes a rasping breath, shoulders mantling.

Time to step in. “I wouldn’t wind her up too much,” he drawls. “I’ve seen her in action.” Everyone blinks around at him. “And you know how women fight,” he adds, feeling his mouth curling, just a little, “no honour there.”

Her eyes narrow, but he can see that she’s worked out the double meaning and doesn’t want to commit herself to a swing that’ll leave her open.

Fabron has bent his long neck and appears to be whispering urgently in her ear. Her near fist clenches and slowly, deliberately, releases.

Good.

She smiles, sweet and sharp, at the Swiss Guard. He finds that expression all too familiar, and part of him grins to see someone else on the other end of it. Batting her eyelashes for good measure, she asks, syrup-slow: “And who, would you suggest, leads the _King’s_ Musketeers for his parade? _Their_ Captain being engaged in defending the country at the moment, of course.”

A short-haired, brown-skinned cadet sniggers for this and is nudged hard by his neighbour. The rest of the boys shuffle as they continue to watch avidly. 

The lieutenant draws breath, presumably for another tirade.

“Scuse me,” pipes a voice from deeper in the ranks.

“What is it?” rasps the lieutenant.

“Why can’t she lead us, please?”

The Swiss Guard splutters, turning a dangerous shade, swinging as if to find who’s dared this question.

He realises suddenly that he’s actually _bored_ of this, wanting to get out there and lead his regiment properly under the day’s shifting, thin sunlight.

“Oh let her,” he half-sighs, cutting across the “Listen, _boy–_ ” of the lieutenant.

“What?!”

He remembers something the Marquis said once. “Come on – have the bantam lead her chicks out there. It’s going to be a long day and everyone needs a laugh.”

The man checks at that and, colour finally going down, throws his head back and laughs, hard, that familiar note of a man not much amused but determined to use it as a weapon. He smiles at him even as his own jaw clenches and hers too by the look of it, arm hurriedly restrained by the swordmaster’s massive hand.

 _Wouldn’t like to meet him in a fight_ , he thinks, _not on my own, anyway_ , surprising himself with the thoughts that follow, and smirking at the lieutenant punching him on the arm.

“Yes,” the Swiss Guard sneers, “let them. They used to have clowns at the Colosseum as well.”

He steers the chortling man away and back towards his own regiment, resolutely not looking back.

That red-headed fool from the Palace Guard trots up. “My Captain wants to know what the delay is.”

“Well, you can tell him everything’s in order.” He nods. “Everyone should be in their place now.”

The Breton nods back, brow knotting under his ludicrous dress helmet. “Right then. Is Madame d’Artagnan–?”

“See for yourself,” he waves a hand over his shoulder as the Swiss Guard, still sniggering, heads over to his own lines. “She’s fine.”

The man’s gaze flicks past him, hardens a little, and returns to his with a nod. “Right then.”

He pays him no more heed, heads back to… he tastes the thought as it slides across him… his men. _God_ , yes.

 _No price_ , he thinks, as he takes his place and starts to lead them to where they will march out through the gate and into the boulevard, _is too high for this feeling_.

Today’s a new day.

*

“What was that?”

The man smiles. “Will Your Majesty care to give the signal to start?”

“Oh? Oh! Oh, yes. Yes, indeed.”

He stands, draws the white silk handkerchief from the breast of his blue-and-gold brocade doublet and, smiling to the assembled people, waves it, dangling from his fingertips, before letting it drop into the street below.

The clarion sounds, the cheers start.

It’s going to be a splendid day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #### Translations
> 
> ##### Mockney Dialect
> 
> "Ah, s’nuthin. Time o’ year’s all." = "Oh, it’s nothing. Merely the time of year."
> 
> "Gonna make a wild guess, like,” he says, proper voice restored, “and say you ain’t eaten nuffink this mornin’" = "I would venture a surmise that you are yet to break your fast this morning."
> 
> "An’ ’ow many times you told them little lads to eat proper or they’ll make even stupider decisions, eh? S’gonna be a long ol’ day…" = "And how frequently, would you say, have you instructed your young protégés to consume sufficient nutrition in order to avoid errors of cognition? This day will indeed be extensively long…"
> 
> "Nope! ’oney-glazed. Black olives. If you _don’t_ eat ’em, I shall be mort’ly offended, which will make me go all feeble, an’ then I’ll die before me time, an’ ’ow will you feel then, eh? Savin’ ya from yerself, basic’ly. No-one wants that kind of guilt taggin’ around after ’em, doggin’ their steps, weighin’ their ’eart daahn. ‘Oh, if only I’d eaten poor Serge’s rolls, you’ll say, ‘’e’d never’ve carked it so tragically an’ that. Let this be a lesson to–’" = "Indeed not! Honey-glazed. Black olives. If you do not partake, I shall be mortally offended, which shall serve to enfeeble me, leading to my untimely demise; how will this outcome lead you to feel? In my actions I supply a rescue from your own mishap. Nobody wishes to carry the burden of such guilt, to have it dog their steps and weigh on their heart. ‘Oh, if I’d only eaten poor Serge’s rolls,’ you would say in such an event, ‘he would never have succumbed to Death’s black grip so tragically. let this be a lesson to–’"
> 
> "’oney and olives. Fresh. You’ll not find better either side of the Seine, I dare say. Go well with a bit o’ cheese, I reckon. Or bacon. Yerrrs. But wanted summink you could carry easily and no grease, innit." = "Honey and olives. Fresh. I dare state that it would be impossible to discover a better example in either part of our river-divided city. They would benefit handsomely from a soupçon of cheese, I suggest. Alternatively: bacon. Indeed they would. However, I wished to supply something which would be easily portable and not stain your clothing with grease."
> 
> "Tha’s good, coz if you’da said I was a saint or summink similar, I’d’a laughed atcha. Right! Gotta go get a good place in the crowd. Wouldn’ wanna miss _this!_" = "I deem this an excellent choice of words, otherwise, you having labelled me a saint or something of that ilk, I would have cause to find that outright risible. Behold! I must set off in order to ensure a decent position from which to observe the coming events, the which I’m desirous not to miss."
> 
> ##### Latin
> 
> "nervos belli, pecuniam infinitam" = "Endless money forms the sinews of war" \- as [Wikipedia has it](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_Latin_phrases_\(full\)#N): _In war, it is essential to be able to purchase supplies and to pay troops (as Napoleon put it," An army marches on its stomach")._


	2. morituri te salutant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations on hover-over or at the end.

“This is splendid, don’t you think, my dear?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Mamá, _Mamá!_ ”

“Thank you, Luisa, yes, bring him here.”

“Mamá, what they doin? What they _doin_ , Mamá?! Luisa won’t _say!_ ¿Son, um, _scords_ , Mamá? ¿Por qué se pegan? ¡¿Son chicos malos?!”

She slides her eyes sideways toward the King, whose own are very firmly fixed on the action and his lips very firmly pressed together. She takes a slow breath and says, in careful French: “Yes, darling, they’re _swords_. And they’re _playing_ , not fighting. They’re very _good_ boys. Very good young men. See there?” She points. Two of the Musketeer cadets are engaged in a slightly cautious duel, their forms rather formal, their actions more display than deadly.

In the next roped-off square are two of the Swiss Guards, similarly demonstrative, if displaying somewhat more élan. They glitter where the boys rather shine with nerves, and their uniforms are a little more obviously… uniform. But then, the Musketeers have always been men apart.

The Red Guards behind the cadets are less showy; less formal too. There is a great deal more circling and quick slashes and stabs before retreat. It reminds her of something, but it won’t quite come.

Louis wriggles in her lap. “What is it, darling?”

“Slow, slow, _slow!_ ” He points at the cadets, bouncing in time to his words.

A chuckle from beyond the other Louis. “He has a good point, wouldn’t you say, Your Majesty?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes, a little… stilted?”

She irons out her small frown with a rapid blink as she finds herself saying: “They are only young, my Lord. I would expect them to be nerv–”

“I would expect more from the _King_ ’s Musketeers,” he says, jovially enough, but with a slant to it that makes her jaw clench, startling her with this stab of protectiveness.

A closer voice to her right says: “This is the most prestigious audience they’ve yet demonstrated their skills,” a brief, scoffing sound from the Marquis, “ _in front of_ ,” comes a touch firmer. The Minister leans forward, and she finds herself encompassed by that bright blue gaze briefly, kindly, she thinks. “They’re naturally keen not to make mistakes.”

The Marquis fidgets briefly, long hands clasping and unclasping the top of his cane. She reflects how little she actually knows about him. They’ve moved in similar circles for years, but he’s only recently–

 _– put the effort in_ , whispers that treacherous part of her brain.

She feels her mouth flatten briefly, but there is, after all, no other way of putting it. He has, in the last year, been more determined in his efforts, including taking up a more permanent residence in his townhouse. And a more permanent residence in the court.

 _Mostly just to remind us he exists_.

She wonders, not for the first time, if it’s the fact of being at war, or the feeling of having his line made more secure (her arms tighten around Little Louis briefly in a spasm of–

_– guilt? –_

Affection. Relief.)

 _Relief?!_ sniggers that other voice, the one that more often speaks in Spanish, even now, points at the _relief_ Aramis could be offering her.

She rapidly blinks the image away. It’s unfortunate, then, that her eye is caught (while trying to return to her broken thought about Louis’s softening attitudes towards his mob of half-siblings) by a familiar figure in unfamiliar garb.

Oh. Oh my…

_Constance. In leather._

Her face feels very warm.

_With a sword._

¡Madre del amor hermoso!

_Hermos_ a _…_

“Are you quite all right, my dear?”

“Mh, merely the excitement of the day, Your Majesty.” Unable to clench a fist, with her arms still full of squirming son, she curls her toes inside her shoe, but still can’t look away.

_Leather. Imagine the scent of it, the warmth..._

“Yes, it’s going very well, don’t you think?”

And she turns back toward him, in a small rush of relief that she can focus on this question… which turns out not to have been addressed to her at all.

Of course.

“Quite the spectacle, Your Majesty,” the man drawls. She wonders, in a moment of spite, if he has any other way of talking, how deliberate it is, whether he knows that he sounds a little drunk most of the time.

_Maybe he is._

She peers at him, leant forward as he is to catch his King’s eye, attention straying increasingly frequently towards the arena, takes her time to look at him properly, at how the breadth of his hands echoes the broad, often hunched shoulders, the way his lips are often pressed tight, and how that surprisingly lush mouth is relaxed now, his cheeks taking on a flush not unlike her own… then his face works, tightening and slackening, the lower lip pushed out in a pout, then bitten. She drags her gaze away before her interest is spotted, but not before catching how he grips and strokes the head of his cane.

 _What’s got_ him _so worked-up?_

Below, the Swiss Guards are bowing to each other, smiling, and the Red Guard pair are swinging into what, to her eye, looks very like the end-game of their bout, as one ruthlessly increases the speed and force of his blows, using his height to its fullest advantage. The smaller Guard ducks and weaves, but the ring is limited in size and there’s nowhere for him to go. Various of his fellows are on the sidelines, shouting their support for – she assumes – one or other Guardsman, to the point where one of the cadets gets distracted and has to hurriedly duck a sweeping blow.

“Oi! Charbonneau! Eyes on the prize, please!” yells a familiar-unfamiliar voice.

The Dauphin giggles. “Is she his Mamá?” he asks loudly.

“No, darling, more like a, er, a Governess, I suppose.”

A quiet snort from her right. Her jaw clenches briefly on the left side and she wonders at that for a moment, how adept her body has become at hiding unbecoming rage, thinks of angry, stubborn little Ana, so new to France, in a flash of sympathy and something like envy.

“Oh!” exclaims Louis, both of them, for that matter, leaning forward almost as one, and she follows their gaze to see the smaller Guard come out of a neat roll along the ground and under the arm of the taller one who turns _just_ in time to bat away his comrade’s blade.

“Captain?” says the smaller man, who’s breathing heavily, and a kind of startled anger and something else flashes across the taller man’s rapidly flushing face. Pride? Yes, something like that, but… she shakes her head to dislodge the fancy. Just a man caught off-guard. And advancing on someone a good head shorter in order to finish the bout off.

He snarls something and engages, brutally swiftly before he’s finished. Afterwards, she thinks it was probably “En guarde.” His opponent yelps.

“Mamá? Mamá?!”

“Yes dear?”

“Mamá, what is _shit?!_ ”

Her eyes close for a long blink, as if this will muffle her son’s piercing tone. She opens them as a crisp, friendly voice says: “It’s a military term, Your Highness.”

The Dauphin is utterly still, for a wonder, in her lap, gazing at Tréville with unabashed awe, and she could imagine Louis-the-Elder being jealous if she didn’t know that he sometimes still regards the man with the same wide-eyed trust that he’s had for him since (she swallows, jaw clenching briefly, unobtrusively again) April 1617.

“Mil’tree?”

“Yes, Highness. Every professional has its own specialist words…”

“Priests, and lawyers, and so forth,” puts in her husband, and she turns to find his eyes sparkling a little, feels a smile tugged forth in answer, rising into her own. His smile broadens, a little crooked.

“Deo gratias,” she murmurs. His eyes crinkle briefly at that before returning his attention to the conversation across him.

“And so soldiers have their own special words, Highness.”

“Sojers?” He points.

“Yes.”

Little Louis opens his mouth on a deep breath, arms rising, but is diverted when a tiny cry from the Marquis pulls all the men to swivel and lean forward, eyes caught by the field again.

The Swiss Guards haven’t left their ring and are gazing openly at the Red Guard. Their colleagues on the outskirts are no better, drawing closer as they stare, and the men setting up the targets for the next set of displays have paused, nudging each other. The Musketeer cadets continue doggedly, textbook tick-tock thrusts and parries slowing and falling out of rhythm as the darker one becomes increasingly distracted and his partner feels moved to smack him on the upper arm with his blade.

“Ow!”

His partner clearly mutters something and he, flushing awkwardly, nods and raises his sword.

She hides her sudden smirk in the Dauphin’s mop, kissing the nape of his neck in a rush of affection, then feels him stiffen and withdraws as he says: “Oooh!” and Louis exclaims: “What happened?”

The smaller Guard’s face is frozen in a rictus somewhere between triumph and dismay.

“He tripped, I think, Majesty,” ventures the Minister as the Marquis hisses, cane thumping.

In the field, the larger Guard, frozen in an expression of almost comic incredulity and rising alarm, seems to watch the ground rising toward him and flings his dagger away at the last minute to save himself with a jarring shudder of most of his weight landing on his left forearm and, she thinks, his opposite knee.

The brown-skinned, short-haired cadet gulps a sound that quivers bright in the sympathetic silence following the fall, and his own wince is reflected on the faces of his partner, the smaller Guard, and several of the onlookers, including Constance.

The tall man rises slowly, colour staining his face and his jaw working. Anne finds herself thinking, in something like nervous chagrin, that this is not a man who likes to be laughed at.

 _Not at_ all.

“Something funny?” he snarls.

The cadet, wide-eyed, gazes fixedly at his comrade in what appears to be a valiant attempt to act as though the very tall man with the clenched jaw is talking to someone else.

“You! Boy! I said! You find something _funny_ , do you?!”

“Mamá, is he a bad man?”

“He’s a–”

“I’m _talking_ to _you!_ ”

“He’s the Captain of the City Guard, Your Highness,” cuts in the Marquis’s voice. “The so-called ‘Red Musketeers’.”

“I see,” she murmurs, summoning every atom of Polite Interest she can muster.

“ _Well?!_ ”

“A personal recommendation,” smiles Louis. “Played a key role in the… recent…” he flails for a moment.

“Investigation, Majesty.”

“ _Oi!_ ”

“Ah.”

“No,” says the cadet, finally, still staring manfully at his partner, lips tight against his teeth and brows high in the middle.

“What’s that, boy?!”

“Nothing funny, no, sorry.”

The man is right up against the rope, eyes almost starting from his head. “What were you laughing for, then, you little black b–”

“Marcheaux!”

And, as if drawing strength from Constance’s shout, her accelerating presence, the taller boy turns, stepping calmly between his friend and the Captain, still-drawn blade not exactly raised, but definitely at the ready.

*

“He _said_ ,” says Clairmont, a little tremor in his voice, but she’s pleased to see his body and gaze steady as she gets closer, “nothing. _And_ ,” he says, a little louder over the man’s sputtering, “he said sorry, alright?”

“Are you threatening me, boy?” Marcheaux’s stance has altered now there’s someone taller between him and Charbonneau, but his colour’s still high, his breathing hectic.

“No, just saying, since you can’t seem to hear him.” And that quiver sounds all through his body, but fair play to him: he stands his ground, eyes still trained on the man.

She draws breath, jaw tightening, then reflects, determinedly unclenching. “I think,” she says, as smoothly as she can, tamping down on any shake of her own as best she can and telling herself it’s all anger anyway, “the constables are wanting to ready the field for the next exhibition, if you’re done?” She pitches it a little toward the men still gawping somewhat, hands slack at their sides, who look at each other, shake themselves into order, and nod. As they bustle meaningfully with unhitching ropes and setting up targets (which includes ushering curious people out of the way), Marcheaux finally breaks eye contact with Clairmont to check around him, and the cadet visibly sags with relief. Marcheaux looks back in time to see the cadets sheathing their weapons and shaking hands, smiles maybe a little tricky at the edges, but genuine for all that. No-one is paying him much mind, and she gives him a bland smile in return for his glare, which only intensifies when Clairmont turns to him with hand outstretched.

The lad nods tightly and withdraws his untouched palm, gets an approving nod from her, and he and Charbonneau receive a clap on the shoulder each as they pass toward their fellows. Marcheaux, fuse still visibly sizzling, turns and gestures his man out of the ring with a jerk of the head. If he’s any sense, he’ll stay far from his Captain’s reach for as long as he can, although Marcheaux doesn’t look like the forgetting type.

 _Captain!_ she scoffs to herself. Whose bright bloody idea was that?!

The man looks over his shoulder then, expression bright with some strong emotions – somewhere between pleading and defiant. And it’s not at her at all, but rather slanted upward. Towards the viewing platform.

Oh.

Shaking her head sharply, these… surmises being inconvenient right now, she resettles her shoulders and heads towards her lads. Charbonneau and Clairmont look at her expectantly.

“Well,” she says, “apart from nearly getting skewered by the Captain of the Red Guard, I’d say that went pretty well.”

They sag a little, and Charbonneau’s face brightens in that way that makes it nigh-impossible to stay vexed with him for long.

“It was alright, Madame?”

“Yes,” she says, “just the right side of awkward – well done,” she adds, drily as they smirk, then cover it quickly. “Okay, marksmen, come on – you ready?”

“Yes, Madame,” comes the ragged chorus, and she thinks to herself for the umpteenth time that they really do need to work on that some more.

“Come on then, up you come.” Three of them – Dubois, Tailler, and Brujon. All of them (Dubois in particular) under strict instructions to be _okay_ , but, like the sparring partners, not as good as they could be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #### Translations
> 
> ##### Spanish
> 
> Spanish translations/ interpretations courtesy of the utterly lovely [Erengalad](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erengalad/). Any errors in implementation are purely mine.
> 
> "Mamá" = "Mummy"
> 
> "¿Son, um, _scords_ , Mamá? ¿Por qué se pegan? ¡¿Son chicos malos?!" = "Are they, um, _scords_ , Mummy? Why are they fighting? Are they bad boys?!"
> 
> "¡Madre del amor hermoso!" = Literally: “Mother of beautiful love!”, a standard exclamation in Spanish, very like saying "Mother of God!"
> 
> "Hermos _a_" = "Beautiful" again, but in the feminine form
> 
> ##### Latin
> 
> "morituri te salutant" = "Those who are about to die salute you!" reputedly [said to Emperor Claudius by those taking part in a particularly brutal, otherwise ridiculous, fatal mock-naval battle at Lake Fucinus](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ave_Imperator,_morituri_te_salutant). Its veracity is massively doubted, which doesn’t stop it turning up _everywhere_ in modern depictions of Roman gladiatorial life.


	3. Viriliter age

####  **three weeks ago**

“I don’t like it.”

“Neither do I, but it’s the only way.”

Fabron glowers at her. She quirks her mouth to one side and glares back. He slumps, gaze dropping. “I know.”

Tréville clears his throat gently. “So we’re agreed.”

She nods briskly. “It’s a good way to keep them safe, absolutely. It grates, but…” she looks meaningfully at Fabron, “but _we_ ’ll know that this is a greater demonstration of skill than anyone else watching will understand. And you and I will need to work out _precisely_ what that looks like, and train them accordingly.”

He perks up a little at this, as she hoped he would. That kind of nitpicking calibration work is something he will revel in.

Provided we can get the lads to agree to this of course…

Something of this must come through on her expression. “It’ll just be another game to play,” Tréville tells her, that tired-but-genuine smile she loves so much to see slanting over him. “A different way to win. They’ll adapt, Madame. The young have that advantage.”

She feels her brow and mouth pinch-slanting with a wry kind of amusement, and it’s an excellent antidote to the weariness she’d been feeling about all this already. His own expression broadens. _Okay, that’ll do!_ she reads, and smirks back at it.

Fabron is frowning lightly. She takes pity on him: “We’d best crack onto this if we’re to have all in place in time. Come on…” She gestures with her head and he straightens and follows her.

“Who do you think will be the best for each category?” she murmurs, wanting to get his head engaged as soon as possible. This is only his second time at the Palace and he has a tendency to swing between smalltown awe and a much more tedious, assumed mien of truculent superiority. An enthusiastic Fabron who is delving deep into the sheer mathematics of categorising cadets by their skills in marksmanship, unarmed combat, and swordsmanship is, howev–

“Oh.”

“What is it?”

“Oh, _bugger!_ ”

“Constance?!”

“Madame?”

She shushes the passing servant and Fabron both. “I– I, er, I just thought of something I had to tell the Minister. Won’t take a moment, very dull, just, er, just wait there…” She shows her open palm to the swordmaster, for all the world as though he were a recalcitrant dog, then swings around, starting to blush hard, to trot quickly back to the Minister’s office, whereupon she pushes in with no ceremony.

“Madame?!”

“Constance?!”

“De la Croix!” she manages, gasping a little.

It takes him a moment as she regains her breath and his brows lower. “Right.”

“Minister?”

“Robert, could you give us a few minutes, please?”

“Certainly, Minister.”

She watches him go, narrow back as straight as ever, frowns briefly – she can’t imagine that Robert doesn’t know all his master knows – but probably Tréville has done this to aid her comfort.

“We _can’t_ keep this secret, not while he’s–”

“Quite.” He nods, expression tight and rueful. “Well, you’ll just have to make your plans then execute them when he’s, well, when the other plan has come to fruition.”

“And how soon will that be?”

His expression turns drier.

“Right.” She takes a deep breath. Lets it out slowly, looking down, letting her eyes trace the front of his desk. “Right then.”

“I have every faith in you,” he says, and the sheer seriousness he pours into something that would sound so trite from anyone else overwhelms her for a moment, even as her gaze snaps up to his. “Constance,” he says, gently, “those lads would follow you into Hell – anyone can see that. If it wer–” he bites the sentence off, face shuttering.

“– not for my sex,” she finishes, sighing. “I know. What a Captain I’d make, eh?”

A complex expression crosses his face very swiftly, and she’s left with the familiar, professional blankness of the man she’s come to admire a great deal in this last year. He merely nods, a brief smile lightening it, and she nods back. Hmm.

Oh! We could always… start teaching them how to gull an opponent into thinking they’re less proficient? And… And yes, have the Petit Chevalier always playing the Superior Opponent.

_Hah!_

“If you’ll excuse me, sir?”

“Of course.” The smile curls one side of his mouth. “Until next time.”

She smirks and nods more deeply, then turns and makes her way out to find Fabron, a tense study in casual posing that threatens to make her laugh out loud.

“Come on,” she says, “and I’ll explain a little bit on our way back, okay?” It’s going to have to be a very convincing sliver that persuades Monsieur Preparation Is Everything to either delay starting their new programme with the boys in their charge, or give them such a strange story to persuade them, but she has the Minister’s confidence, and that will stand for her own until she can match it, she thinks with a wry smile.

“Okay.”

“Unless you fancy seeing the armoury here first?”

His face is impossibly bright for a dazzling moment. Then he frowns. “Don’t we h–?!”

Her expression broadens to a smirk. “I _just_ might know of a back way in…”

“Ohhh…”

“Shall we?”

“Yes please.”

It is a very instructional afternoon.

*

####  **Today**

There’s some kind of exchange happening on the field and That Woman trots forward, confers with one of the constables, turns, and heads… for him.

What in _Hell’s_ name does she want?

“You left this, apparently?”

The haft of his own dagger is being offered to him with a kind of good-humoured blankness that is somehow profoundly more irritating than if she’d openly smirked. He feels his mouth twitching toward a sneer, stops it with a firm press of his lips into a flat line, and nods as he takes it, fighting not to snatch the weapon from her open palm.

She nods back. and maybe it’s all the humours of the abortive duel singing in his blood still, but he feels this peculiar sense of fellow-feeling for her, flooded out the next moment with a more familiar bile, and he twists into resheathing his main gauche, innards lurching with something like disappointment when he looks back again to see her striding for her own lines, and much later, three glasses in, flexing freshly bruised, split knuckles, he’ll wonder why he thought of them as lines at all, the battleground drawn, forgetting the next second, stumbling to his feet in search of relief.

The sounds of the marksmen begin to ring out – musket, pistol, crossbow. He draws a deep breath, straightens himself, and steps toward his own lads so he can gulder encouragement (and maybe distraction for the others). 

He scans along the array of regiments represented for this bout. He is unsurprised to see that the Provost and the Palace Guards aren’t there… wait, actually, that red-headed Breton from the Palace is there, no mistaking him without his helmet. The constables seem to have set up the far end of the display for shooting at closer quarters. Since all his men are using muskets of varying size and power, they’re easy to find, and right next to the Musketeer cadets. Wait, no – one of the brats has a crossbow. And he finds himself thinking in some detail about the advantages in the right hands – more powerful than a longbow (he sneers a little at the Swiss Guard and two Life Guards demonstrating that particular old-fashioned skill; nothing more than a pastime these days), and quieter than firearms.

He watches for a bit. Takes about as much time to reload as a pistol, he supposes, maybe less if you don’t drop stuff as reliably as this kid, and you’d only need the bow and the bolts, really. His hands tell automatically over shot, oil, powder, cloth, all in their right places, wonders if he’ll be able to afford a better, newer pistol. Even two. Maybe not straight away. He frowns. He can’t tell if it’s the crossbow itself – in particular or in general – or the fool shooting it, but the bolts rarely so much as graze the third circle. The Swiss Guard next to him is having better luck, so maybe it’s just this Musketeer brat.

The ones with muskets aren’t much better, and a slow smile of something like relief slants over him. _Well, maybe give it a few years, eh?_

That d’Artagnan woman strolls up the line towards them and they all turn as one; kind of comical, he thinks, except…

Except it calls something in him too, the dark place he can’t turn to. Nothing to see, just a hole in the ground, and the smile slips off him like mud slicked by persistent rain.

All her focus on the boys, she smiles, full of a kind of proud light, and his jaw clenches so hard it sends such a bright lance of pain into his skull that he has to actively resist clenching further against it, casually reaching up to massage away the tension in the muscles bunching from throat to temple. It works this time, and he eases out his neck and shoulders – a crackle clattering all through his body.

He looks toward the dais then, can’t seem to help himself, thinks he’s caught his eye, nods in any case, thinking: _I want you to be proud of me_ , remembering holding him close, the way he shivered in his arms, then pushes his attention back to the field, seeing them arrayed in their colours, thinks: _We really need to do something about this fucking uniform_. 

*

####  **Yesterday**

“All in good time,” he tells him.

“Of course, sir. Er, My Lord. Sorry.”

A fond kind of chuckle. “We’ll let it pass this time, but mind you observe the proper forms in there.” He watches the pointing finger, seems to see beyond the large, ornate door, swallows hard, throat dry.

He tries for a smile, a reassurance that he won’t fuck this up, he really won’t, but it gutters into nothing as soon as it appears.

The Marquis seems to understand, lends a hand to his shoulder. “And it really is just a formality. Putting the seal on this. All you have to do is look suitably grateful for the opportunity.”

“I am.”

“I know.”

This smile lasts a little longer, and the Marquis answers it in a now-familiar twist of pale features. They only have to wait a few more minutes, in the event, and they’re being ushered in to see the King, him following Feron’s cues as closely as he can.

He hadn’t counted on what a relief it would be to have Tréville there, and he nods tightly at him, the man nodding back, ramrod straight back and Ministerial air like a breastplate, but still enough give in him to offer reassurance.

He shies from that thought.

He wishes his own clothes were smarter; he’s done what he can – oiled and polished and buffed where possible, but it’s a working uniform – nothing much you can do, is there? And the Marquis thinks he’s suitable.

Very suitable indeed.

Through the roaring in his skull he hears his own name and bows again, stiffly, face cold and ears burning, surely red as radishes, stuck on a white plate.

He bites the inside of his lip to prevent himself from giggling like an addle-pated child.

In the end, as the Marquis said, all he has to do is nod and look soberly grateful while receiving his official commission, and he must manage at least some of that, because the King smiles (so many fucking _teeth!_ ) and tells him he’s _heard great things and looks forward to hearing many more, eh?!_

“Your Majesty.”

“A bit solemn,” he hears as he leaves. “But then so was the last chap.”

“It’s no small thing,” Tréville tells him, “to meet one’s King.”

“I suppose not!” Then calling: “I look forward to seeing what your men are made of tomorrow, Captain!”

He turns and bows in the doorway. “It will be our honour, Sire.”

“Jolly good!” And the man actually claps like… like a small child. He follows the Marquis into the marble hallway beyond, and down the corridor, passing the others waiting to attend.

“You did well,” approves the Marquis. “And yes – when he’s not throwing his toys around, he’s always like that.”

“Ah.”

“Do me proud, Georges,” he says at parting.

“Yes, Governor,” he responds, a bit of swagger back in him.

“Oh, I _like_ that,” he tells him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Viriliter age](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Viriliter_age) is a motto, meaning "to act manfully" and is translated more freely recently to "to act courageously". It comes, apparently, from Psalm 27, and is used by a lot of places, exclusively, it would appear, education establishments, and predominantly all-male and/ or Catholic places of learning.
> 
> Hi! I’m back. It’s been a Bit of a Time (hasn’t it for _everyone?!_ ), but I’ve been reminded lately how much I love to write, and how satisfying finishing a project can be. So. Here we are. Thought this was the final chapter, but it turns out there’s a wee bit more to come before we return to the Front, and it also turns out that writing Marcheaux does not flow quite as well as other character POVs. At some point I should probably make a stab at Feron and Louis. Might take a while, mind!
> 
> Hope you’re all well.


	4. Vires acquirit eundo

####  **Today**

As they start to all file off the field for the constables to clear it, ready for the last part of this long day, Constance takes a moment to touch backs and shoulders, tell them what a good job they’ve done.

A snort from her right. She looks up to see Marcheaux shouldering past, sneer firmly fixed. “Good job? They couldn’t hit a barn door between them!” He cocks an eyebrow. “And now Paris knows it.”

“Yes,” she says calmly, quietly, “now they do.” Brujon ducks his head at that, mouth twisting a little before he can bury his merriment.

The good humour slides of the Red Guard like oil off a blade. “Something funny, boy?”

Brujon returns a very bland gaze. “No, sir.”

That square jaw slides slowly side-to-side like he’s easing it out. “Want some advice?”

“About what, sir?”

Constance tries to give him a warning look, but his pale face is shut down and his eyes a little glazed. Out of sight of Marcheaux, his near fist flexes rapidly near the stock of his musket, sitting in its sling.

Marcheaux makes a show of looking down at him, upper lip curling. “Shooting, for a start,” he drawls.

“No, sir.”

The man’s face clenches and his colour starts to rise. He leans in. “ _What’s that?_ ”

Brujon’s eyes slide to one side and then return. “No _thank you_ , sir?”

“I think,” says Constance, as gently as she dares, as the cadets draw closer together, broad Dubois squaring his shoulders, Tailler pulling himself up straighter, “they need us off the field now.” Everyone looks at her, various shades of betrayal and contempt painting them. She raises her eyebrows. “ _Now?_ ”

Marcheaux outright snarls, but the lads nod and, even if not any more relaxed, at least step back and head at a neat pace towards the others, waiting, Charbonneau wide-eyed, being subtly restrained by Royer.

As they reach the edge of the grass, Constance reaches and touches Marcheaux’s arm, meaning to, well, she’s not sure, because he seems… Anyway, to arrange to talk some other time soon because she can’t very well leave today’s behaviour where it stands, can she?

He spins, snapping “What?!”

“I’d like a word, Marcheaux, please.”

He sneers, swaggers a step closer to force her to look up uncomfortably. “Go on, then.”

And instead of working to soften and conciliate she feels her face harden and says, in a level tone but rapidly: “Listen: I’ll not have you talking to them like you have been today. It’s not on.”

“Not on? They need some damned discipline, woman.”

“Not from _you_.”

“Clearly not from you either.”

Right. “You yell at your own men as much as you like, you oversized bully, but these boys are under _my_ protection.”

His eyes narrow at ‘bully’ and then relax a little, his mouth drawing up on one side. “Won’t be long before they’ll be hitting the streets properly, will it? Who’s going to look after them then, eh?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Just what I say – tough city, Paris.”

And now her own eyes narrow. “And _you_ ’re supposed to bring the law to its streets!”

“And _I_ decide what that looks like.”

She feels a scowl gathering. Lets it. “You don’t get to decide the law – that’s him up there.” She tilts her head towards the dais.

His face tightens as his gaze follows the gesture briefly, but there’s something else in there she can’t quite– “I think you mean the man at his right hand.”

“The Minister? Yes, he’s pretty powerful.” A reminder.

He curses under his breath, then smirks. “Well, not after dark, anyway.”

“And what is _that_ supposed to mean…?!”

He opens his mouth on something, then claps it to, raises an eyebrow over a broadening smirk. “Tough city, like I say. You never know who’s around any corner.” And, with that, he just saunters off towards his men, who stop peering and twitch to attention.

Breathe. Breathe. Smile at the lads.

“Come on, then, let’s have you ready to file on! We’ll be called shortly.”

“Yes, Madame!”

“Good.”

_Good._

*

The last of the six regiments is called onto the field and Anne stretches minutely in her seat as they file into their places, missing the weight and warmth of her sleepy son as the wind picks up a little. The herald has a fine voice, if a somewhat old-fashioned grandiloquence, and she suddenly finds herself also missing, like hunger, the exchanging of covert smirks with Constance. Madame de Motteville is a wonderful companion in many ways, but is, well, still so very _proper_. She flashes a glance toward her, stood in a small crowd of nearby ladies- and gentlemen-in-waiting, beyond them, a little incongruously, Monsieur Robert, the Minister’s secretary, and some faces she does not quite– Blinking, she returns to the scene in front of her as the herald bids everyone greet His Majesty, Louis XIII de Bourbon, King of France, and he’s standing and waving, grinning as only Louis can…

And gesturing for silence.

Oh dear.

She feels the lack of Constance sorely at this point. Because Louis is going to attempt a speech. She steels herself.

As well as hiding discomfort and disquiet, Anne has, over the last couple of decades, become eloquent at sinking under the wash of other people’s words, occasionally surfacing enough to nod, smile, frown, look concerned, look determined, or laugh as occasion demands. When Louis launches into something about _demonstrating France’s might_ she braces herself for rather more nodding and looking quietly proud than usual, while her rebel voice supplies unhelpful commentary along the way:

_That’s my_ brother _, you impious fool._

_Go on, then –_ you _ride out to war and tell us how glorious it is!_

_Their widows and children thank you, I’m sure…_

and she heels it into submission for the sake of France, for the sake of her son, for the sake of peace.

She smiles elegantly as the Marquis de Feron is introduced as the city’s latest Governor, who, standing a little awkwardly, is honoured to be _given an opportunity to assist our beloved, beleaguered city in finding stability and prosperity in these troubled times_ , bowing his head with some difficulty to receive the official seal of office that she can tell, by the look on his face when examining it, he’ll wear as little as decently possible.

As the Marquis stiffly takes his seat, Louis faces the crowd again, gesturing for the polite applause to cease.

“We have spoken of bravery, honour, stability, glory, but there is a word particularly close to my heart: _loyalty_.” A murmuring from the crowd. “To be a King is to value loyalty, steadfastness, truth, and not to suffer its opposite, in any form.” A louder murmuring, and a nastier one. Anne deliberately loosens her fingers’ grip on the arm of the chair, her shoulders unlocking gently in the same moment.

“Hang the traitors!” comes a harsh man’s voice from the crowd of citizens around the square, ringing off the high fronts of the still-unmarked hôtels of the Place Royale like a crow call.

“I have,” says Louis. “I shall.”

And oh, _so_ cold here. So exposed. She dare not look to Tréville. She dare not look to anyone. Just sit, poised. _Project grace_ , comes as a soft-spoken, hard-edged memory of Ama Inés. _Currents flow fast under the lake, but the surface shows only the most_ decorous _of ripples. Do you understand me, child?_

“But today is a day of celebration!” he calls, and the warmth seeps back into his demeanour, the cloud passes by, and she breathes, discreetly, a little deeper. “And I mean to honour loyalty, ingenuity, and skill here today.” He pauses. Everyone waits. “We would not be enjoying the security of this glorious day if it were not for the efforts of, er, many wonderful people, but chief among them someone I have been neglecting to thank for, well, a lifetime of loyal service, really. And so I would like you all to help me show my gratitude to the most loyal and, and _strongest_ servant of France, with this gift, but also with your cheers.” He pauses. Grins. Gestures. “Minister Tréville!”

Anne summons up her broadest, brightest smile, hands flying together to join the rather more thunderous acclamation for the Minister, who is looking as stunned as she feels, and rather more embarrassed. He gathers himself on a difficult smile and stands and, as he does so, she catches a clear glimpse of the Marquis’s face.

_Oh dear. Somebody didn’t want to share his cake._

“Let’s hear it for the Minister!” rings out high and clear (and familiar) from the square as Louis, beaming, opens a small, bright casket and displays it to the crowd, which continues its huzzahs on general principles despite surely being unable to see the contents particularly clearly, and then shows it to the Minister, who blinks rapidly, and nods a couple of times, suffused with more emotions than she’s ever seen on his face in a lifetime, let alone all at once. His eyes slide to the side as he’s overcome, and she deliberately catches his gaze and nods, smiling as approvingly as she can, feeling her cheeks bunch in genuine joy for this recognition of him.

He nods back, once, visibly collects himself, and returns his attention to the King, graciously receiving the casket with a smile and a nod, shaking Louis’s hand heartily, waving at the crowd, and shouting “And let’s hear it for His Majesty!” and the crowd continues its joyful noise as the Minister rather retreats from it into his seat, staring down at the jewel in his hands.

Louis waves and beams and, after a while of this, gestures to the herald, who instructs the crowd that the day’s official festivities are done.

As people stretch and turn, the volume of chatter starting hesitantly, then rising steadily, peppered with the occasional laugh, the herald makes his way onto the dais, going to one knee in punctilious decorum that, again, she thinks, looks terribly antiquated. She smiles as he raises his head.

“Shall I instruct the musicians to start, Your Majesty?”

“Well,” he laughs, “I suppose we’re paying them for something!” Chuckles scatter the air. He flutters one hand. “Do go ahead.” The man ducks away to instruct the group.

The Marquis rises and, smile-grimacing, congratulates Louis on a wonderful event. She turns to the Minister. “Congratulations,” she tells him, softly.

“Oh.” His head comes up for that, a tired, but genuine smile crossing him. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

She smiles again, bright and warm. Leans toward him. “May I…?”

Confusion dashes briefly across his gaze, which narrows in surmise, briefly, in a gesture so like Aramis’s that recognition ( _recollection_ ) thumps hard in her, breath-stealing, nearly sickening. Her smile does not even waver. He nods, turns the open box toward her, extends his arm to bring it closer. She asks silently and he slides it into her waiting palms, the movement surprising her, as it always does, in the delicacy delivered by such broad, capable hands.

“It’s beautiful.” It is. The engraver has captured Tréville to the hair, and she wonders how it was done without his knowledge. In a bronze so brightly polished it may as well be gold, the man’s uncompromising profile gazes to the distance, ringed by his name and Ministerial title. “Is there a reverse?”

He blinks a little. “I… don’t know.” He gives an awkward little upward gesture that she interprets as an invitation to turn it herself. Prising it from the velvet that hugs the medal, she cups the surprisingly solid weight briefly, enjoying the (admittedly cold) texture as it scrolls over her fingers, to reveal… “Oh!”

They are leaning together, almost head-to-head across Louis’s seat, peering at “Er…”

“Bellerophon,” she tells him. “Slaying Chimera from atop Pegasus. Look.”

A blunt finger grazes over the inscription that haloes hero, horse, and beast. _Ex Fidelis Fortis._ He chuckles. “From loyalty, strength?”

“Yes.” Their eyes meet, twinkling at each other. Then someone coughs nearby and she feels the brief warmth slide from her like a borrowed cloak. She returns the coin, face up, to its niche, twisting the obverse a little to bring it true with its surroundings, passes the casket back to its owner, experiencing a flitting fancy of some of her warmth passing to him from her hand via the metal of his prize.

“– only that it is a trifle _cold_ ,” the Marquis is saying, shoulders shrugging comically inside that perfectly pressed doublet.

The open pavilion around them being little more than an elaborate awning, she sees his point, envying those who’ve elected to watch the entire event, from parade to exhibition, from inside the pristine hôtels of the square.

“Well, that balcony was a trifle _cramped_ ,” explains Louis, beaming, and the Marquis grunts. Louis cocks his head, a bluetit enquiring of a magpie.

“I should have thought,” says the Marquis, “that any _number_ of _better-connected people_ ,” his free hand gesturing around this square of those whom he doubtless considers merely _bourgeois_ , “could have supplied us with more commodious environs.”

Louis’s fingers tighten around each other behind his back. Anne remembers him raging: “My bloody _mother_ , so _graciously_ offering her _bloody_ hôtel. As if I’d–” He’d drawn an unsteady breath. “She’d only bloody want to come for the damned Parade, and I’m– I won’t– It’s _mine_ ,” he’d finished, a little breathless, a little too plaintive to be commanding.

“Sire,” Superintendent Bouthillier had soothed, “there are, I am sure, any number of your loyal subjects with houses in the city who would be delighted to offer you th–”

“They call it the _Petit_ Luxembourg already. Did you know that, hm? Because next door, _she_ wants to recreate Florence in Paris, for the love of–” Another ragged breath, and he’d coughed alarmingly.

She’d reached for his arm and he’d shied away, so, blinking a little, she’d beckoned a servant to bring water, the sting of the rejection going deeper than she would have imagined. The Sieur had waited with breathtaking patience and, as if nothing had happened (Kings do not cough so cheaply, so helplessly, so we act accordingly), had smoothly repeated himself, adding that he could, if His Majesty so desired, m–

“Yes, yes – make it happen. Please.”

“Your Majesty,” the man had bowed out, as ever, so curiously neat for a man his size.

Here and now, Tréville excuses himself, rising, and she nods absently, mildly amused to see that he has gone to greet the very Sieur she has just been recollecting. She must remember to congratulate and thank him for the smoothness of the day.

“– and so, you see,” Louis is saying, “this is ever so convenient.”

“For the Bastille?”

“Bas– Bft– I–” sputters Louis, and she rises as smoothly as she can, stepping to his side.

“The views of the Rue St. Antoine were unparalleled, my Lord,” she smiles, “and it was a wonderful opportunity to make happier memories for parades _down_ ,” as opposed to up, “it, wouldn’t you say?” She clasps Louis’s arm gently, grateful that he does not flinch from her this time.

“Indeed.” The papery features give a smile as impersonal as the sky beyond them.

_You’ve made no friend here, then._

“Has everything gone t–?” The Marquis falters, and it’s so unlike him she finds herself staring. His gaze has drifted in the direction of the prison in question. “I– I mean to say…”

“I believe so,” she tells him crisply, hoping to move the conversation on, for God’s sake, why–

His gaze returns. “And you did not wish…?” he says to Louis, who stiffens a little under her hand.

“I had more important things to attend to.” A teeth-grinding moment. “And anyway, why should I wish to ruin such a lovely day? A celebration of loyalty,” and the Marquis’s eye tightens momentarily on that, “rather than witnessing the results of… well…” Feron casts a glance at her as Louis fades out, and, as she returns it blandly, she seems to hear the snick of chess pieces sliding into place. She squeezes her husband’s arm. He draws a breath, and draws a little way from her – an inch that feels like a foot. “On the other hand, I suppose I should like to see the grimace he’s making on that scaffold right now. A great one for pulling faces!” And she can’t bring herself to join in the brittle laughter they reflect at each other – it’s too much.

It’s at times like these she finds herself thinking of Ninon, those things she said which amused Louis so much, and seem so very pertinent today. And she misses Constance’s presence _again_ , so much so that, when her form appears through the thinning crowd, it’s as though she’s summoned her.

A woman has latched onto her, and appears to be, well, making some kind of point very emphatically. She can’t tell much at this distance, but keeps watching anyway – it’s something more comfortable to lay her attention on than the cawing of the Marquis and the rigidity of her husband. Constance bends her head, expression intent, the woman – well-dressed, pale, elegant – gesticulating passionately as she speaks into her ear. And then Constance nods, once, expression still unreadable, and looks up towards the pavilion, straight into her eyes.

For an unknowable length of time, she holds that distant gaze, then Constance tilts her head a little and she nods in return, squeezing Louis’s arm lightly again, bobbing a murmured apology to the pair of them, and smoothly making her way towards where Constance and the woman are approaching the dais.

She beckons them up and Constance clambers without hesitation, turning to offer her arm to the woman who follows, hollow eyes in an alabaster face, beneath a dark, delicate stole that gives her the air of a woman in mourning.

They both make deep courtesies toward her and she nods on a small smile to them as they rise.

“Your Majesty, may I present to you Lady Félice de la Croix, wife of the Valet de Trianon,” says Constance, telling her silently that the name is significant, slowing a little to add: “and mother of the young Chevalier de Trianon.”

The calculations that follow are as swift and without voluntary thought as she’s ever experienced them – A son of higher rank than his father, Constance’s swift peer in the same direction that the Marquis has not long finished gazing, the mother’s red-gold colouring, those almost translucent lashes, the long nights of weeping told in the dark green eyes.

Ah.

“My dear,” she says, reaching forward, employing that long-mastered trick of gentling the tone while leaving the volume of her voice loud enough to be heard over the crowd’s chatter, “how do you fare?”

The woman’s eyes close for a long moment, corners of her mouth tightening, fingers knotting. “Your Majesty, I–” Constance gazes at Anne for a long moment, and she finds that they can still speak volumes to each other this way. She returns her attention to Lady Félice as she finally continues: “I cannot lie. Matters are… are very ill.” She opens her eyes to stare into Anne’s with the burning intensity of someone who has barely slept for days, pushing through on sheer stubbornness.

“How terrible for you. He is your only son?” She sees no reason to draw this out, make the woman recount the details.

A harsh sob, like a cough, reined in hard. A nod that shakes her whole torso. “Yes.” A hand does not quite creep to her belly. “There– There were no others.”

A small frown creases Anne and she sees it reflected in Constance, who looks away and around, then breaks away abruptly with that new stride of hers.

“I understand,” Anne tells the shaking woman. And waits.

“My husband,” she says, “he does not eat, he will not speak. I– I begged him, but– he would not move. So I came. I– I do not know what– I–” and Anne hears the tight, shallow breaths of a woman fighting tears with every atom of her will.

“Take your time,” she says.

This time the nods do not stop. It’s possible she simply cannot stop now.

Constance returns with a cup of wine she presses into Lady Félice’s hands then hovers close, not quite holding her, but… _sheltering her_ , thinks Anne, and watches Constance watching not only the woman under her arm but all around her – a flicker of attention that never stills longer than a few moments except when returning to Lady Félice and… Anne tries not to hold her gaze when it lands on her, hungry for it in a way only half-confessed to herself, pushing that back for the sake of the woman haltingly drinking warmed wine, rich with spices. Constance has commandeered something meant for a higher level of nobility, no doubt in Anne’s own name, and she blesses her for it.

Her tremors fade to something more manageable, her teeth no longer audibly chattering, and she takes a good breath.

“That’s better,” she tells her. “Now, I need to know what to say to the King and Minister Tréville when I request your son’s release. Tell me of him, if you would.” She beckons a servant. “Bring us three chairs, if you would be so good.” Constance gives him a look that says: _Now_.

Later, after Constance returns from leading the woman back to her waiting servant, she says: “He was an enormous pain in the… neck, and I wanted to strangle him for sending his cousin that note, but I don’t think I ever really saw him as a proper conspirator. An idiot, yes. Arrogant, for all the reasons you might imagine, something of a bully, and _definitely_ a snob, but not, you know,” she gestures, a little helplessly, “ _evil_.”

“Would you have him back in the regiment? Offer your parole for him?”

Constance turns her head, leaving her eye on Anne. She raises her eyebrows, flattens her mouth. Then her gaze slides and she sighs. “I honestly don’t know,” she admits. Turns back to Anne. “He was infuriating, but an excellent swordsman, especially for his age. I suppose it would depend on whether he _wanted_ to come back, and whether this past week has taught him anything useful. I mean: the Swiss Guard would probably suit him a lot better, if they’re taking cadets at the moment, and he could have his servant with him.”

She considers for a moment, feels her expression crease conspiratorially. “Tell me: did Minister Tréville ever talk to you about how a certain older noble entrant to the King’s Musketeers fared in his first few months?”

The barest hint of good humour lifts Constance’s face. “Another excellent swordsman, would this be?”

“I believe so, yes.”

“Not in so many words, no…”

And Anne, surrounded by duty, the cold air of a dying day, and the chatter of those who are there to see and be seen, cloaks herself in time talking and laughing with Constance after too long apart, the warmth of those blue eyes sparkling in incredulity, the trust of someone who will lay a hand on her arm to punctuate her tale.

It is enough. For now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the ever-expanding final chapter of this work! And I owe some particular thanks for this one:
> 
> ##### Inspiration
> 
> I don’t know quite where the idea of a **medal for Tréville** came from, but I found the perfect model in this medal of [Pierre de Conty d’Argencourt, French engineer and builder of fortifications, by Guillaume Dupré](https://www.vcoins.com/en/stores/coins_to_medals/37/product/1630__france__pierre_de_conty_dargencourt_french_engineer_and_builder_of_fortifications_by_guillaume_dupre/445197/Default.aspx):
> 
> Such fab moustaches! And look at all that lace!
> 
> And, me being me, I couldn’t just imagine the thing, I had to sketch it, and one thing led to another and behold my version above!
> 
> (The original of the Bellerophon picture can be found [here](https://favpng.com/png_view/pegasus-bellerophon-pegasus-chimera-greek-mythology-png/7pJnAHxi#). Pegasus and Bellerophon are used as symbols of both strength and loyalty, so I figured they’d be a good Classical reference to add to this.)
> 
> In trying to find the best place for the exhibition part of the King’s Parade to take place, I enlisted the help of the Musketeers discord server, and once again, [Erengalad](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erengalad/) came to the rescue, mostly in the form of added enthusiasm, though she did suggest the [Luxembourg Palace](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Luxembourg_Palace) before I decided on the Place Royale. The dates and location didn’t _quite_ work for me, but the idea of Louis explicitly rejecting his mother’s interference did, so behold she was offering him the [Petit Luxembourg](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Petit_Luxembourg), to which he said no! (Eren-galad also reminded me that trying to stick to historical canon and BBC canon alongside my own canon was never going to entirely work, so here we are, with Marie di’Medici owning the Petit Luxembourg as well, because Richelieu wasn’t around to have it given to him…)
> 
> Since I failed to make proper notes about how I found the **Trianon connection to the Marquis de Cinq-Mars** (the one who’s being executed at the Bastille on the same day as Louis, his former lover, congratulates himself hugely and makes small talk with the new Governor - and that cruel comment of his about his former _favourite_ making faces on the scaffold is based on a real quote), so I couldn’t tell you whether it was a Valet or a Chevalier or a Viscomte, but I’ve been sitting on this work too long, so here we are, BBC style. If anyone has better information for me, please let me know. Anyway, looks like the [Petit Chevalier](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18828811/chapters/55555114) is going to be okay after all!
> 
> ##### Latin
> 
> Those of you who’ve read a few chapters of The Three Musketeers know that M. de Tréville’s (nouveau riche) family motto is "Fidelis et Fortis" – Loyalty and Strength. That seemed too good an Easter Egg to pass up. With thanks to [cutemuffintooth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cutemuffintooth) for validating my Latin.
> 
> Speaking of which, the title of this chapter means "she gathers strength as she goes" and is A quotation from Vergil’s [Aeneid](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aeneid), Book 4, 175, which in the original context refers to [Pheme](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pheme).

**Author's Note:**

> So Life™ has somewhat taken over, and I found myself writing plenty of poetry and other sections of this work (and other WIPs) but not any of _this_ , until a chance remark by someone on a Musketeers discord server had us joining in a kind of write-along, and behold, in the act of rehearsing how I would explain my current block to others, I got through my overthinking loop by having the character in question explicitly overthink, and here we are!
> 
> More to come, obviously, but quite slowly. Life™ is still very much Occurring, the pesky thing.


End file.
